Fear lurks at my gate like a gyrovague,
Its begging bowl clogged with failure's bones,
Lisping its warning never to change,
Unstable as night mist's shifting tones.
It cries for alms in the dead of day,
It tolls the hours with cowled skull bowed,
Its habit frayed where the shame shows through,
Mulls over misstep and untrod road.
If I turn the key, it will knock and knock,
So I lend it a seat in my circle of bliss;
Having seen it hollow, I now sleep safe,
In the stillness of light where no dread is.
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